


lightspread

by figure8



Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Canon Compliant, Drabble, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, idolverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24651391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: At the door, Minghao stops him with a hand on his wrist, his thumb on Junhui’s pulse point.
Relationships: Wen Jun Hui | Jun/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 28
Kudos: 195





	lightspread

**Author's Note:**

> i woke up to MINGHAO KISSING JUN ON THE CROWN OF HIS HEAD ON VLIVE and had to do something in order to not go completely bonkers. happy june the 10th everyone!

_Let those fools be loud_   
_Let alarms ring out_   
_'Cause you cut through all the noise_

— Bastille, _Anchor_

At the door, Minghao stops him with a hand on his wrist, his thumb on Junhui’s pulse point. Junhui flashes him the brightest smile in his arsenal. Contentment is a still sea in his body. He’s always loved his birthday— what’s not to love about twenty-four hours where everyone is contractually obliged to shower you with attention? Happiness comes easy to him when he’s surrounded. 

“Are we not going back home?” he asks, head tilted to the side. 

“No, we are,” Minghao says. He’s grinning too, mirror image. Junhui knows how to decipher this smile. Higher on one side, dimple to the left, Minghao’s eyes crinkling; this one is _fond._ It took him years, but this is a language Junhui is fluent in now. He can navigate the intricacies of Minghao’s expressions, the hidden alleys of his gaze. Sometimes Minghao looks at him like the vastness of what he’s feeling has become too much for him to bear. Junhui does not have a solution for that, but he does have two hands and the unwavering belief that most things in life are meant to be shared. 

“Happy birthday,” Minghao says, his hand now on Junhui’s elbow. There is a softness to his voice, like padded footsteps in the kitchen at two in the morning, like the breeze between windchimes. 

“You’ve said that,” Junhui says. At the same time, he thinks, _my cheeks hurt from all this smiling._ Minghao’s black mask is dangling from his left ear, counterproductive. “You’ve said that, like, thirty times.” 

“Yeah. But— in front of cameras. Or the others.” 

Junhui chuckles despite himself. “You’re cute. You’re so cute.” 

Minghao’s face reddens, and Junhui can tell he wants to protest, the words lemon juice on his tongue. But he doesn’t, he just tugs Junhui a little closer. Their thighs are touching. Behind him, the door frame is digging slightly into Junhui’s shoulder blade. 

Minghao leans in slowly, with intent. Junhui knows the sudden darkness in his eyes, the tar-black tint of seriousness. The movement is careful, purposefully deconstructed to allow him time and space to duck away. Junhui doesn’t. 

Their lips touch with unsurprising softness. Junhui knows how Minghao kisses; he has seen it, and he has experienced it, albeit never sober like this. He’s always measured, in the beginning. He likes to be in charge— and there’s his other hand on Junhui’s neck, grip barely there but still— _there._ It is a very tender affair. Junhui remembers, during a drunken make-out session that now seems like it happened light-years ago, thinking that what was fundamentally lacking from Minghao’s kisses was disrespect. At the time he had wanted to be pushed down and _kissed,_ thoroughly, with tongue, with aggressivity. 

But this is different. Like this, trapped between the plaster of the wall and Minghao’s body, this feels like the extension of a hug. The logical conclusion of their friendship— how do you touch when love never stops growing? When you have exhausted all other avenues and possibilities? He thinks he understands the language Minghao speaks here too, the unwordable truth of their mouths slotted together. Warmth floods through his system honey-sweet. Where their bodies are connected it burns, and where they are not there is nothing. 

“Hey,” Minghao murmurs, breath cool against Junhui’s jaw. He presses a close-mouthed kiss on the hard straight line. It is a word that holds no meaning, a sound he makes for the sake of making sound. Just checking in, _hey,_ and kisses peppered along the slope of Junhui’s throat, so atrociously gentle. Earlier when they were broadcasting on V Live he had put two fingers on the inside of Junhui’s forearm and had just left his hand there, his presence a message in itself. 

“Hey,” Junhui says, grip tightening on Minghao’s shirt, ribcage filled to the brim like a hot air balloon, no questions left. 


End file.
